He was telling me about his day, and I was concentrating on driving, but the timbre and the pitch of his voice caught me unaware. Wait “? say that again “? did your voice change?

It happened overnight, I tell you. But that is how my son is growing these days, sprouting in leaps and bounds, skinny legs outgrowing size 12 pants, T-shirts that fit just fine a week ago now grazing his belly. We’d already bought him deodorant months ago. And I’ve asked around for skin cleansing tips because his skin is breaking out, and now The Voice.

“But he’s only 11!” I think. “Give me till 13!”

I don’t mind being the mom of a teenager. I’ve come to terms with the phenomena of children growing up around me, while I still feel youngish, in my 30s at least. They are getting old. Not me, even though I’ve bought my first three-pack of reading glasses at Costco and no longer understand the lyrics of many pop songs.

But this, the new voice, gives me pause.

I remember teasing my nephews when their voice took on that deeper, croaking warble. Almost immediately I felt a ping: goodbye, babies, toddlers, kids. Goodbye to that high-pitched voice piping up: “Carry me! Look at me!”

What did my son sound like before this? I resolve to unearth videos and find out.

My son just smiles when he sees me in mini-panic mode: “It’s OK, Mom, I’ll still give you a kiss when you ask.”

He pretends to look for the last ounce of baby fat on his upper arms so I could pinch it and doesn’t mind mornings spent cuddling in the family bed. He tolerates hugs from his dad, and still likes playing with his younger brother and sister.

He’s still very likable.

“Please don’t turn into this taciturn, moody teenager who thinks everything is tragic,” I told him once. He thinks that is funny.

Having children forces you not to be complacent. Everything changes. Every day, they grow, sometimes overnight. My no-neck Michelin baby is now the spitting image of his father, almost my height, dressing behind closed doors, asking about pimples, getting grossed out about puberty but curious just the same. He isn’t yet as self-conscious as I was at this age. He isn’t yet a teenager, really. I keep telling myself that.

It helps we have an 8-year-old and 3-year-old around to keep us anchored in childhood a bit longer. But I feel this must be acknowledged, this one-of-many letting go’s, his voice. Bye bye, baby. Yes. And thank you.